himself, hard on his family.
His daughter, Barbara. I thought for a long time she was suffering from her father’s autocratic ways. But now I’m not so sure. Barbara had been greatly influenced by her father. I’d say the two of them were bound by a love-hate relationship.
On the one hand she admired her father. In her brusque way she was often very like him. On the other hand, I can’t shake off a feeling that she detested him. Truly detested him.
She would never confide in me, although I tried to induce her to do so several times. But there was the way she sometimes looked at him when she thought she was unobserved. To me, as a man of God, it was very strange. There was hatred in her eyes. Not love, no: hatred.
As a priest one is confronted with all aspects of human life. And you may believe me when I say I have seen and known much. It was recently in particular that I more and more often saw dislike, indeed venom, in her eyes.
The child Marianne was a dreamer, a little dreamer. I taught her Religious Instruction at school. She was very quiet and dreamy. A pretty little girl with blond braids. I cannot bear to think that she too fell victim to the murderer’s hand. She and little Josef. Why, I ask myself, why can such a thing happen, why are two innocent children victims of such a wicked deed?
The mills of God grind slowly, but I do firmly believe that this deed cannot remain unatoned for. If no sentence is passed here and now on the murderer or murderers, then he or they will still not escape just retribution.
I am firmly of the opinion that none of us here can be the murderer. I wouldn’t believe such a thing of any member of my congregation. No right-minded Christian can have committed such a diabolical crime.
What became of Barbara’s husband? You mean Vinzenz?
There’s a rumor that he emigrated to America. But the only certain fact is that he isn’t here anymore. He disappeared overnight. Vinzenz was one of those refugees uprooted from their homes who came to us in the weeks and months after theend of the war, in search of a new homeland, a new place where they could live and survive.
He found work on the Danner family’s farm. It wasn’t until Barbara was pregnant that she married Vinzenz.
I can’t approve, of course, but directly after the collapse of the regime ideas of morality and order were in some confusion. After that terrible inferno, people were hungry not just for food but for physical closeness too.
It was one of the first wedding services I conducted in my new parish. Why did the marriage not last? Well, people may come together in turbulent times when in other circumstances they would never have done so. Many of these unions last, in spite of the problems of daily life, but others break under the stress of them.
Vinzenz Spangler was no farmer, and he couldn’t get used to life on the farm. In particular he had a very difficult relationship with his father-in-law, and so he left.
Two years ago Barbara became pregnant again. Georg Hauer was entered in the baptismal register as little Josef’s father. I wasn’t going to condemn anyone.
The week before her terrible death, Barbara came to see me in the presbytery. She wanted to confess, she said. But then the next moment she thought better of it. She seemed agitated, nervous. There was something on her mind. I told her to lighten her conscience.
At that her mood changed, she became defiant, almost aggressive. She had nothing to confess, she said. She didn’t have to ask forgiveness for anything, she had done nothing wrong. Then she turned to go. I stopped her, because she had left an envelope lying there. I could have that for the church, she said, or for needy souls.
“Do as you like with it. It’s all the same to me.”
And then she left the house quickly, without another word. There were 500 marks in the envelope. I still have them in my desk drawer.
T here is perspiration on Barbara’s forehead. In spite of the cold, in
His daughter, Barbara. I thought for a long time she was suffering from her father’s autocratic ways. But now I’m not so sure. Barbara had been greatly influenced by her father. I’d say the two of them were bound by a love-hate relationship.
On the one hand she admired her father. In her brusque way she was often very like him. On the other hand, I can’t shake off a feeling that she detested him. Truly detested him.
She would never confide in me, although I tried to induce her to do so several times. But there was the way she sometimes looked at him when she thought she was unobserved. To me, as a man of God, it was very strange. There was hatred in her eyes. Not love, no: hatred.
As a priest one is confronted with all aspects of human life. And you may believe me when I say I have seen and known much. It was recently in particular that I more and more often saw dislike, indeed venom, in her eyes.
The child Marianne was a dreamer, a little dreamer. I taught her Religious Instruction at school. She was very quiet and dreamy. A pretty little girl with blond braids. I cannot bear to think that she too fell victim to the murderer’s hand. She and little Josef. Why, I ask myself, why can such a thing happen, why are two innocent children victims of such a wicked deed?
The mills of God grind slowly, but I do firmly believe that this deed cannot remain unatoned for. If no sentence is passed here and now on the murderer or murderers, then he or they will still not escape just retribution.
I am firmly of the opinion that none of us here can be the murderer. I wouldn’t believe such a thing of any member of my congregation. No right-minded Christian can have committed such a diabolical crime.
What became of Barbara’s husband? You mean Vinzenz?
There’s a rumor that he emigrated to America. But the only certain fact is that he isn’t here anymore. He disappeared overnight. Vinzenz was one of those refugees uprooted from their homes who came to us in the weeks and months after theend of the war, in search of a new homeland, a new place where they could live and survive.
He found work on the Danner family’s farm. It wasn’t until Barbara was pregnant that she married Vinzenz.
I can’t approve, of course, but directly after the collapse of the regime ideas of morality and order were in some confusion. After that terrible inferno, people were hungry not just for food but for physical closeness too.
It was one of the first wedding services I conducted in my new parish. Why did the marriage not last? Well, people may come together in turbulent times when in other circumstances they would never have done so. Many of these unions last, in spite of the problems of daily life, but others break under the stress of them.
Vinzenz Spangler was no farmer, and he couldn’t get used to life on the farm. In particular he had a very difficult relationship with his father-in-law, and so he left.
Two years ago Barbara became pregnant again. Georg Hauer was entered in the baptismal register as little Josef’s father. I wasn’t going to condemn anyone.
The week before her terrible death, Barbara came to see me in the presbytery. She wanted to confess, she said. But then the next moment she thought better of it. She seemed agitated, nervous. There was something on her mind. I told her to lighten her conscience.
At that her mood changed, she became defiant, almost aggressive. She had nothing to confess, she said. She didn’t have to ask forgiveness for anything, she had done nothing wrong. Then she turned to go. I stopped her, because she had left an envelope lying there. I could have that for the church, she said, or for needy souls.
“Do as you like with it. It’s all the same to me.”
And then she left the house quickly, without another word. There were 500 marks in the envelope. I still have them in my desk drawer.
T here is perspiration on Barbara’s forehead. In spite of the cold, in
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